Written by Joe Alterio
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/kues
Stanwick fiddled with his tie. Cheap piece of shit. One of Emily’s last ‘fuck yous’. By that time in the relationship, gift giving had become a rote obligation, as emotion-filled as checking a box on a form. He’d worn it, what, three times? Already he could see the threading on the seam.
“You’re…LET GO!!”
A thunderous applause filled the cavernous space, which blanketed the plaintive screams that usually accompany such an announcement. The big burly men twisted the small man’s arms back, back, until the arms looked like they’d wrench out of their sockets as the man was hustled out the door. Stanwick noticed that both the burly men’s polo shirts were stained with sweat underneath the arms. Stanwich never noticed it on the broadcast, but it must be hard work, being an enforcer on the show.
Stanwick refocused back on the glossy man’s head directly in front of him. The bright studio lights turned him into a silhouette, the light bleed rendering him nothing more than a moving blob, indistinguishable amongst all the other chaos surrounding Stanwick. The lights, the screams, the cameras, the stench of the pancake makeup the young girl had hastily slapped on him. She had small perky boobs, right at eye level. That was nice.
“STANWICK, DOUGLAS, R.”
The chyron graphic on the huge screens behind him lit up with his face, some flying graphics of his employee file, and some photos that had no doubt been stolen from some unlocked social media site of a colleagues. This is was it.
“…YOU’VE BEEN INVITED TO… HAVE…A…CHAT!”
The last three words were chanted by the hooting, sweating audience. Those troglodytic assholes. None of these people probably even had jobs. Regardless, they found enough money to buy a ticket here. Did they have to buy tickets? Maybe they gave them out free on the street. Stanwick didn’t know. Why would you come here willingly?
As the burly men removed him from the holding pen backstage and escorted him to the red glowing ‘hot seat’ on the middle of the podium, the glossy shining man was gesturing to his producer off-camera. However, the moment the glossy man felt the cameras back on him, his million-watt smile erupted on his face, like an automatic reflex. He spun on his heel and focused on Stanwick. Stanwick gulped. The man turned to a camera on a rig-arm, zooming down low over the audience.
“Welcomebackmyfriends to Let’s Have A Chat, I’m your ever-charming host, Kenneth Longbrae, and we’re gonna see who gets to keep their jobs, and who–”
At this, the crowd chimed in, in all their Boschian, writhing glory,
“GETS–LET–GO!”
Thaaaankyouverymuchmyfriends! DOUGLAS STANWICK. Here in The Hot Seat. Doug, Doug, Doug, how are you my friend?”
Stanwick managed a meek reply.
“THAT’S TERRIFIC. Douglas, I’m to understand you’re a Senior Project Manager at AraCorTel, is that correct?”
Without waiting for Stanwick’s reply, the studio darkens, and a bulleted slide pops up on the screens.
“You’ve been there for 3 and half years, you earn $59,000, you’ve put exactly $1200 in your 401K, and you’ve recently told your senior manager Megan Whatley that you ‘really enjoy working’ at AraCorTel.”
The crowd rewarded that little bit of company loyalty with some polite applause, but you can tell they didn’t really mean it. Stanwick blinked as the stage lights swiveled blue and came to focus on his seat.
“BUT DOUGLAS…. WHAT’S THIS?”
A dramatic music hit filled the speakers as on the screens, and what looked like the side of Stanwick’s face appeared. There was some rustling, but then, clearly on the audio, Stanwick’s voice started talking.
Shit. The buggers got into my phone, Stanwick thinks.
“Oh, fine, I guess. No, it’s alright. Same old, same old.”
Someone in the audience hoots. They know something juicy is coming.
“Fine, besides the usual. I hate my fucking job. My boss is an idiot. But yeah, fine.”
At this, the crowd erupts, jeering and booing lustily. They smell blood. Someone in the back yells, “SOME LOYALTY.”
Kenneth turns to Doug, and puts his hands together to his pursed mouth. He waits a beat.
“Folks… does… does that sound like someone who ‘really enjoys’ their job?”
The crowd erupts. It’s nearly here, and they can’t stand the waiting.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“And do you think Doug should get to keep his job?”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Kenneth turns to Stanwick, and for a microsecond, he actually looks in Stanwick’s eyes. There is nothing there. Then he swivels to the main studio camera in front of him, and juts his thumb out parallel to the ground, with Stanwick behind him, feeling faint. The crowd feels this moment intensely, and already there are preemptive hoots.
Kenneth smirks into the camera, and jams his thumb down.
The crowd goes crazy.
***
Joe Alterio makes things, from comics to web projects. See more at joealterio.com.